


Fixed It

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Makes Mistakes, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gift Fic, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Outdoor Sex, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sex on a Car, Sex on the Impala, Sexual Content, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Dean has been a bit weird recently, so having a good proper talk about real things would be a good way to clear the air. Except he doesn't need to talk about anything like that.  He thinks he's made a mistake, and he's afraid of making more.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deandoesthingstome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deandoesthingstome/gifts).



> I wrote this for my friend Charlie. She wrote wonderful, detailed, generous responses to my stories, and it was her birthday recently, so I decided to surprise her with this.

“What’s wrong?”

Dean’s looking down, shaking his head like he’s ashamed of something.  It looks serious. You ignore the 5’9”  7/10 down the bar and talk to your friend for a moment.

“Hey, what’s wrong man?”  You pluck on his jacket and try to get in his field of vision.  “Talk to me.”

“I made a mistake,” he mutters, half to himself, and chews his lip while he look at the ceiling.  “I dunno what the hell…”

“Dean?  Dude?”

He looks up at you like he’s got the worst news of the month and considering your months… Okay, it is serious.  

Not here.

You tug on his jacket sleeve and start to leave the bar.  A quick glance proves he’s behind you, dragging himself outside too.   You walk some ways into the quiet car park before turning to look at him intently.

“Talk to me,” you say and steady yourself.  This you can do.  This is good.  Not good, but it’s been weird for a few weeks.  The two of you played married for the shortest of interviews, a quick “We’d love to inspect your house” and you don’t know what happened but he’s been weird and evasive ever since, smiling at your chin, closing his eyes while he laughs, that kinda shit.  So a talk about something real, bigger than whatever that was, this is perfect.  Something to get your friendship back on track, get the banter bouncing again.  “What’s the mistake?”

He puts his hands on his hips lets his head hang while he mumbles.  “I deal with all sortsa crazy shit.  And this.  This is too much.”

“What is?” You backhand him in the arm. “Come on.  I wanna buy a vowel.”

He sucks a breath in through his nose and draws tall, looks down at you waiting for some honesty and heaves out the truth; “I like you.”

“Yeah I like y-”

“No I reeeeeally like you,” he shakes his head slowly, because you don’t understand.  “I like you soooo much.  I like you a lllot.”

He steps away, a slow pace on the gravel, and rubs the back of his head.

 _Now now Charlie,_ you hear yourself think.   _Just… now, now._   “Is it that big of a deal?  I mean, maybe it’ll pass…?”  You shrug helpfully and Dean peers at you from under his brow, face scrunched like you’ve suggested milk before bed.

Then he bursts with gesture.  “No it’s not going to pass!!”  He waves his hands around with each word.  “It hasn’t passed in- yet!  I’ve been _waiting_ for it to pass!”  

Right then.  He clearly doesn’t want to have this feeling for you.  But at least it’s only a like, and not much more.  Barely a distraction, obviously.

“Seriously, Charlie, it’s so distracting.” _Oh_.  “You’re all smart and assertive with people.  I can’t even be in the room when you push people around any more.  I’m fucking tenting-” He tucks his lips into his mouth to bite that one back.  “You’re gorgeous, and smart, and I don’t.  I can’t even tell how accurate I’m being about you.  I like you a _lot_.”

“You need me to leave?”  It’s the last thing you want, the last thing you’ll ever want, in any of the lives you might live on this earth.  You do not want to leave his side.  But if that’s what he’d prefer…  “I can leave, if I have to.”  People go without all sorts of things, and they’re okay.

He looks at you standing there, unable to see how much the idea hurts, and assumes the favour isn’t returned, doesn’t realise that what he’s looking at is a well practised neutrality, a tamped down affection and a kernel of lust you have dutifully not watered because He Doesn’t Like You Like That.  Or didn’t.  Best you knew.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

You shake your head no, and he doesn’t move.  

Second pass while you try to figure out whether you should dig up what you’ve been hiding and show it to him.

He stands there and wonders if he’s made yet another error.

“Could you come back here please?”

His shoulders hang guiltily as returns to his spot.

“What was the mistake?” you ask.

He licks his lips and thinks, bucks up to fess up.  “I shoulda told you, back when we were playin’ married.”

“Told me what?”

”I liked it.”

“Hey, I like it too.”  A ha!  Fixed!  “Everyone likes that stuff! See? You’re fine!”

He looks at you, hesitant and suspicious.  “Why?  Why did you like it?”

There was probably something on the tip of your tongue, but he’s staring at you, looking for any sign of which way your answer may go and it’s been weeks since he looked at you so clearly. It makes your brain trip.  You scratch your cheek and end up rubbing your palm up and down your jaw, pulling a slow crooked smile.

“Why?” he asks again, like a nudge.

“‘Cause, you know.  Was nice,” you mumble.  “Really, very nice.”  You smile and rock a little, feeling shy, and you see the lamp light reflect off his teeth.

“Well fuck.”  He licks his lips again and looks past you.  “What was the nicest part, you think?”

Oh shit.  When he wrapped his arm around you like it was natural?  When he put his hand on your knee mid conversation? When he pecked you on the lips and looked right into your eyes in a way that made you deaf?  Where they called you Mrs Winchester?  

Then your brain, the smarter part, peeps _Charlie.  He fuckin’ likes you.  What Are You Doing?_  “I dunno.  All of it, I guess.”

“Would it be a mistake to do something about it?” Dean asks.

You’re facing the bar door, but he’s a yard or two on your left, sort of facing you.  You see his hands close and open, and the fingers twitch, like he’s ready to draw.  It makes you look at him a bit harder…  “Would it be a mistake not to?”

“W- Really?”

“Might be a waste.”

“You are fuckin’ kidding me,” he grins.  “Come here!”

“Nu-huh!” You go sideways, smiling and cheeky.  “Sam’ll come lookin’ for us.”

He gets to you, shuffling in front and tugging on your elbow.  “Why, why would he do that?”

“Well, we’re not gonna be quick, are we?”

“Fuck, seriously?  Charlie,” he leans down, muttering as he gets closer, almost mumbling against your lips.  “I’m still gonna kiss you.”

“Dean-” and he does.  It’s sweet and happy, a pouty peck, like it was on the job, and then he bounces back and keeps his lips on yours while he straightens to face you properly, a little open, a bit wet, and he pulls you both to face each other.

You grab onto his clothes, pull him down and kiss him harder, then accidentally bite his lip.  He grunts and pulls back, watches you suck your own lip like you’re tasting him still.  For a few seconds his face falls serious and he looks at you like you found his weak spot.   _How could you?_ He clears his throat and his fingers press hard.  “We should… probably… go inside.”

“You think they’ll let us kiss some more in there?”  you ask, staring at his lips.  It’s a little unconscious but you’re leaning up for them, lips peeling apart as you tiptoe.

“Not the way I wanna do it,” he mutters.  His hands wrap around your upper arms and he helps you rise, scrunching your shoulders into your ears.  It’s a kiss that makes you open your mouth, drink it in, and his tongue does things that makes your pussy start to hum with wishes and hope.

“Wait,” he stops, knocking his forehead on yours.  “Wait.  We’re goin’ inside.”

“Ya,” you sigh, eye still closed, swoon receding.

He lowers you slowly, and rubs his hands up and down a little, watching you get what you can off your lips and his eyebrows go all sorry over all the sensible things you’re not doing right now.

You try to tell yourself the right words: “Okay, so we’re going to go inside.  Go and have a few more drinks.  Sam will probably find a nice girl and we’ll.  Yeah.  We’ll just…”  You open your eyes and look at the bar door, envisioning the rest of the evening.

“Yeah.  Yes.  Some drinks.”  He agrees solemnly.  You guys have to get back to the motel room after all.  He moves to go but your words interrupt him.

“How many drinks?” you ask.  “What’s the plan?  We talking dangerous dancing?  Overconfident pool shots? Or I See Dead People?”

Dean wonders what you’re getting at.

“I mean, how many drinks would it take, do you think, for mistakes to be made?”

The only thing you like better than Dean biting his lip, is when it’s you who gives him a reason to.

He stares at you, into the space above your head.  “You know I make mistakes while I’m sober just fine.”

You nod.  “Yeah.  It’s just, I figure, if a mistake’s worth makin’,” you swallow, gathering courage, “be a shame to ruin the memory with being drunk.”

Dean steps up to you, grabs your wrist and as kindly as possible, walks you back to the car while he talks quietly.  “Okay, I’m gonna need you to be a lil’ more explicit.  What are we talkin’ about here?  What, exactly, are you thinking of?”

He pulling up by the passenger side door and your heart hammers like you ran here, high and jolting your chest with every beat.  It makes it easier to blab your mind.  “I think maybe, another 3 drinks and I’ll be talkin about how long I’ve been mistakin’ about you.”

 _That so_ , says Dean’s face.

“Another two and I might let you mistake my brains out.”

Dean rocks forward for a second, then leads you to the front of the car and pops you onto the hood, right beside the headlight.  He leans against the metal and kisses you, finally letting go of your wrist to cup your head and pull you close.  You spread your knees for him, let your skirt bunch up around your panties, and with a firm hand on the back of your hips, he jerks you against his groin.  The height is perfect enough that you can feel his cock filling, literally filling between your legs as he kisses you.  “Yep, that’s a lot.”

“Oh you gonna give me sass all night?” He’s huffing against you, breathless and brushing his hands down your body, squeezing whenever his palms are full.

“Yes, all night,” you tell him, driving your fingertips up the back of his head and making him shiver.  “All night, Dean.”

This time his hands stop on your hips, right over the back where he can dig his fingertips into the plump of your butt and he pushes himself, pushes into his own hold, the crush of it making you gasp.  You smack a hand on his ass, encouraging him, gulping air and feel your groin flush with heat while he nudges you there.  Right under your palm, you feel condom in his back pocket, and you fish a few fingers in there to fiddle with it.

“I usually put that in there when you’re in the shower.”  He looks at you with a tethered gaze, brushes your hair down.  “I’ve been so fuckin’ hopeful.”

From here you can see the creases of his lips, watch the minute movements of his eyes as he looks at you, the tiny hairs at the edge of his hairline and where the stubble scatters to skin.  You want to feel it against you, against your cheek and ears, feels his eyelashes on yours, you want to get behind the salt of him.  You want morning breath first hand.  “Here.”

He hesitates a moment.  “You sure?  I mean… I just wanted to get close to you.  I can wait if-”

“I don’t,” you swallow, “I don’t want to wait. I want to do something.”

“What kinda somethin’?” he asks, and when you don’t answer with anything but more foil-packet fiddling, he slides his hand over your thigh, drags his knuckles up the inner side until his finger has brushed your panties.  “What kinda something, Charlie?”

You push your forehead into his chin, drag the pressure over it, and get your face up into the curve of his throat.  You let the bridge of your nose, your eyebrows, tickle him in there where he smells so perfect and will him to read your mind.

And because he is so hopeful, he drags the pressure back, smears the back of his hand right up the tendon inside, and nudges his knuckles against your softness, pushing the cush into you.

You suck the cool air into your nose and lengthen, reach up to kiss and tongue under his ear, find his pulse, and he presses more, slides up and down, listening to you hum for it.

You rock your hips, and he tucks a finger behind the fabric, presses the back of his fingers there, feeling the moisture seep onto him and feels all of him jolt lightly, a little buck from the crying pressure in his pants.  You’re definitely ready for something.

Dean leans back so he can see your face, pretends he’s paused when really he’s just holding still, over the cotton again, so you can grind against him.  He turns his hand, gives you the points of two fingers and watches your eyes flutter closed when you move yourself over them.

“I can’t make decisions when you do that,” you grumble.  He smirks _Me?_ and your ignore him. “What do you want?”

Dean ducks those fingers inside the elastic and slips between your lips, running pressure up and down either side of your clit.  Your grab onto his arms, snapping still, and try not to moan.

Up and down he moves, teasing your hips to rock themselves, and he starts dipping deeper with each pass down, wetting his fingers, the first knuckles, then second, breathing harder at how warm you are compared to the night air, at what he’s doing to you.  When he gets deep enough for his thumb to join in, he drops his elbow and starts to help you sit up straight, lean into it, and he breathes with you, each little _oh_ a piece of praise.

He can imagine it, how it looks to be inside you there, but watching your eyelashes fan over your cheeks, your lips full and slack with concentration, it’s all luck and pride.

Always the competitive one, Dean dares to give it a try.  A little tuck in his reach and you jump and scratch, sighing “Dean!”  _How am I supposed to control myself?_   

He smiles, bites his tongue and goes again, makes a rhythm and rubs your clit so good it’s selfish.

“Ah! Fuck! _Fuck!_ ”  He feels your thighs jitter against his hips, his wrist, and your insides quiver around him, making him grin.

“Oh you fucker,” you say winding down.

“Is that not what you wanted?” He’s all nonchalant, like he knows best.  Like he isn’t fucking chuffed as all shit he just got to make you come on his car.

You thunk your forehead on his shoulder, puffing, and when you look up he’s chewing his lower lip, cleaning it of something, and there are those two fingers, much closer to his mouth than anything else.

He glances at them, at you, waiting for you to say something.

Hands and lips.  You attack him and his belt, and he starts explaining through your kisses, “Sorry- I just- I always wanted- to taste- fuck-”

You haven’t touched his cock yet, but he’s free, out in the night freshness and you’re plucking that condom from his pocket, and holding it up between you both.  “You want me to-?”

He nods, a little dazed, “If you want. Yeah.”

You look down and your brain splits in two.  His cock is right there, big and shining at the tip, nodding slightly with his pulse, and below that are the darker curls and his balls.  You can see where he’s been on you, your underwear off centre and damp.  The half of your brain not cursing up a storm over the view is dedicated to slipping on the condom as smoothly as possible, with steady, gentle hands.

Dean’s palm warms your neck, the other squeezes your thigh, and his temple is by yours as you both look at yourselves, watch you slide your grip up and down his cock a few times, then pull the fabric aside and tilt him down.  He gets his fingers into the crotch of your panties, gives it a solid yank and the threads on the thigh seam give, making it slack. Then he moves forward, taking over, and his breath pushes in and out his nose as he gets deeper.  In the last few inches he nudges you, pulls your lips to his with the drag of his nose and you gasp into his mouth as those curls tuck tight against your pussy.

Why are you outside?  Why are you on the car for this?  He’s got his forearm behind your shoulder, palm flush against your neck so he can curve you up into him and his mouth is on yours, slack, hot lips resting on yours while he breathes a moment and feels how close you are.  You imagine sitting on the edge of a bed, or in his lap, even on a kitchen counter - so many places he could have you this way and _not have to hurry_.

Your tongue reaches forward, lips tilt and lock onto his, and he kisses back, kisses harder and soon it’s hard enough to make him move, all of him, and he surges the kiss like his hips are the bass drum, holding you still, working you both so high so fast, it’s practically irresponsible.

When you can’t breathe enough, he nudges your head back, latches onto your neck and lets you sigh up into the air, thinking of how hot you must look, losing it under the spill of a street lamp, your voice lost in the trees nearby.  Thank goodness you’re supposed to be quick because he will be, fast and soon, and if he didn’t know you he would be embarrassed but you’re right there with him, rocking on his dick like there’s no tomorrow.

Dean doesn’t hear himself grunt into your shoulder - he’s listening to you come, high and perfect - but he does feel himself buck those afterbeats and he pushes them hard like thanks.

“Oh, oh fuck,” you pant.  “I’m sweating.”

“Hmmm, you smell like sex,” he murmurs, with all the closeness and depth you’ve ever wanted near your ear.

“You smell like me.”

He stares at you, a slight shake of the head. “…I’m not going to last two more hours.”

“Come on, let’s get in there and get it over with.”

He’s quick with the condom and clothes, and you remind yourself to pull your skirt low so you don’t smear sex all over the booth seats.  He helps you off the impala, smiles at you rubbing it dry with your jacket sleeve, and lets his hand sit heavy on your hip as you walk back to the bar.

“Well,” you sigh. “I think that went pretty well, as far as mistakes go.”

“Biggest mistake of my life,” Dean says, smirking when you look at over at him.

The bar door bursts outwards and Sam comes out, his arm draped over a brunette who’s beaming up at him.  “We’re goin’ t’her place,” he calls out, striding down the street.

You and Dean stand there, gaping at Sam giggling out of sight.

“Well shit,” Dean says and takes a deep, chest-filling breath.  “Looks like tonight’s just one big fuck-up huh?”


End file.
